


To Make a Knight, to Break a Night

by ladyofdragons



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Circle of Light (Transformers), Gen, Minor F/F pairing, Minor Violence, Origin Story, Pre-War, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdragons/pseuds/ladyofdragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People with high life condition like Wing are not born, they are made. Made through struggle, difficulty and darkness. Through what darkness does Wing's light shine from? This is that story, as I tell it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make a Knight, to Break a Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is Wing's origin story, as I constructed it years ago for the purposes of RP, finally in fic form. I recently passed my fourth anniversary playing him so this has been a long time coming. Since he's passing into semi-retirement for me, this is kinda like writing my memoirs I guess? I love doing character development though; so it all began with my notes on his [altmode](http://winged-knight.dreamwidth.org/1127.html). About time I finished it, eh?
> 
> If I can keep it rolling, I'll take it all the way through to his knighting. Thanks for reading.

_There was darkness. Only darkness. Or were his optics offline? Like eyes closed to the truth. He couldn't remember what happened last, where he was. He must be safe in his berth right? A simple little courier, performing his function like everyone else, a cog in the wheel of this once great society. He was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The conflict these days? It was between the elite and the oppressed; he had no quarrel. Didn't he? It was someone else's fight, someone with skill and resources and connections._

_The war would never touch him, that was something that happened to other people._

_Didn't it?_

 

***

 

Freewing hummed a tune as he paroused the task board at the portage hub, retrieving his assignments and itinerary for the day. The duty manager was always relatively systematic about their postings, assignments made based on location, the deliverable, and which courier suited the job best. But there was always some preferential treatment, usually earned if one was a hard worker, made delivery times early, and achieved good customer satisfaction. There were always a few jobs that were elective too, distance flights usually, or ones that were sure to encounter bad weather or cross questionable territory. Often they required more fuel than an air courier's usual ration, but also came with a measure of extra pay. 

The small white and blue jet ticked through the list, unsurprised that some of them were still unclaimed--who wanted to fly to Peptex and risk skirting the Rust Spot?--but oh! His amber optics light up at the last entry. It wasn't the destination that drew him, but the route. If he was careful, if he plotted his course right and made up time at hard burn...he could earn a few minutes detour to Harmonex. It'd be costly, but the fuel burn would be worth it.

Oh, to see the Singing City, what a wonder it would be! He'd always dreamed of visiting there; it sounded, but all descriptions, to be a phenomenal place. Freewing's amber optics must have twinkled with these thoughts as he stood there staring at the task board, because it earned a bemused cough from large vents behind him. 

"See something you like?"

"Oh!" He turned to see Turbine standing over him, in theory doing the same thing Wing was, but in truth paying far more attention to her coworker. "Just looking over the optional assignments again," Freewing said, "some rare opportunities today!"

"Never turn up a chance to get out, do you 'Wing?"

"How else am I going to get to see more of Cyberton? You think someday I could transfer to Iacon?" 

Turbine chuckled, her greater bulk shifting with mirth. She had often wondered aloud what color Freewing's optics might be if the stars didn't shine so brightly in them. Her own blue ones dimmed a bit as she turned back to the board with a sigh. "What I wouldn't give to do these long runs and make some extra credits. How I envy you speed models."

"Turbine," Freewing gave her a playful shove, disapproving, "just because you're a cargo model doesn't mean you can't! Don't presume you're meant to make bulk deliveries for the rest of your life."

"Hey, don't let the Functionist Council hear you say that," she jibbed, poking him back. 

Freewing laughed again, audial fins flicking. "I'm serious though! Plot the right course and you can use efficiency to make up for speed. And this run to Peptex? It's far safer for you than any of us lighter models. Come on, I've heard you laugh in the face of turbulence!"

"Wing, stop!" Her grin though, said otherwise. "You really think I can make it in time?"

"The real question I think, is if it's worth it to try?" Her helm titled, considering. Freewing however, had already made up his mind. "I can do the course for you. I'll pull the geo and weather data then plot something that suits your specs."

The cargo plane's look of deep consideration vanished as a grin spread over her face, "That'd be great Wing. Really stellar."

 

***

 

_Sounds came to him through the darkness: creaking, like the groans of something massive under duress, and the soft tinkle of falling particles, like sand and grit. Motes of dust filled his intakes as he tried to cycle air, the act generating a strange rattle. The space around him felt tiny, close and hot, warmed by his body. But there was smoke too, and heat, the crackle of distant fire and..._

_And the dull groans of pain. Who was that? Were they near? Or was that him, making that noise?_

 

***

 

The lights of the great spaceport at Ibex glittered in the distance, creating tiny halos of color on the runways and byways, reflecting off the hulls of ships both great and small. A trio of mechs perched on a small rise beyond the outer fence, close as one could get without security clearance, a canter of quality energon emptied into three glasses. 

Spirits were up, Freewing still riding the high from his successful side jaunt to Harmonex, long after bathing in the city's chorus as the lithic crystals sang with the sunset. Turbine's fruitful run to Peptex and those that followed earned her a few decent bonuses, gaining them this special purchase of luxury grade energon. It fizzed in their glasses, the tangy sweetness of it a compliment to the dazzling show of lights beyond.

Freewing's hand shot up, finger aimed at a moving fleck of light, too fast the be a star. "There! Another one coming in finally. Can you guess its landing pattern?"

The two other helms swiveled that direction, peering into the sky. Turbine spoke first, "Judging by the approach vector, I'd say delta, fourth bay." 

The mech next to her shrugged and took another sip from her glass. "Don't look at me, any time a grounder has to consider airborne approach vectors it's gotta be bad news." 

"Looks like you're right Turbine," Freewing beamed, gesturing with his own glass as the shuttle touched down. The larger jet grinned and clinked glasses with Freewing.

"Well, there's our share of excitement for the next five minutes." Triaxle said dryly, swirling the engex in her own glass thoughtfully as her fingers twined with Turbine's. 

Freewing sighed softly, "There used to be so many more, all different shapes and sizes, coming from mysterious places or setting off on strange adventures..." The wistful quality in his voice couldn't be missed as he gazed at the sprawling web of light from their cliff perch.

"Not these days," added Triaxle, "I heard the fuel shortage is worse than they're telling us." 

"I heard there'd been rioting out on one of the mine colonies," Turbine added. "Senate decided to automate and somebody got torqued, made a real mess of things."

"Serves 'em right!" huffed her conjunx endurae, "When are they gonna stop treating us cold-conned mechs like assets and start treating us like people?"

"Hey, hey, be careful what you say love, you never know..."

"We're out in the middle of nowhere! Stop fretting!"

"I know, I just worry..."

Freewing watched the couple bump shoulders and exchange reassurances with a spark that grew tender and at the same time tight, grim thoughts of current events weighing heavily on sweetness of the couple's affection. It made the small victories that brought them out here seem even smaller by comparison, the warm celebratory engex feeling cold in Freewing's hand. The small jet's optics turned to the sky again and there was the gentle tug of longing again, to be truly free, to touch not just the sky but the stars too, to explore worlds never seen where things like Functionism and fuel shortages and riots were foreign thoughts. 

"Do you think we'll see any alien ships docking tonight?" He wondered aloud, trying to recapture the pleasant mood of the evening.

Turbine vented pensively next to him but it was Triaxle who spoke. "Naw, nobody comes here anymore. Cybertron's not exactly a vacation destination."

 

***

 

_Still, it was darkness._

_No. There. A flashing light, in the bottom corner of his vision._

_Bright streaks split the blackness then, flickering static that filled his visual feed. Then suddenly, a jumble of red, a sea of error messages. His HUD, finally rebooted, spilling status messages across it. He swatted at them mentally, confused, minimizing them to the background while he tried to get his bearings. His cheek was pressed down upon something, a jagged thing digging into the facial mesh, the surface below chill like placticrete and not the soft memory foam of his berth. He wiggled his fingers, one hand responding, fingerpads scrapping against the ground. His legs felt heavy, tried, unwilling to respond as if he had just came out of recharge and boot up wasn't complete. And his wings--wait..his WINGS! Why..._

_...why can't he feel them?!_

 

***

 

Amber optics gazed back at the task board in the courier bay, dimmed this time, furiously flicking around as if unwilling to see the bigger picture. The swing of the duty manager's office door startled him, flight panels shifting uneasily, as Turbine exited with her day's assignment.

"Got a route to Nyon today, we got any overlap? You wanna pace me for part of it?" Freewing shook his helm in response, audial fins pinned flat in discomfort, something his friend was quick to pick up on. "What's up?"

"I got an escort today."

"Well that's pi, how lon--"

"No, _I'm_ the one being escorted. Armed escort. 'Delicate information transferal not trusted in open data systems'. Whatever that means." 

"'Wing..." It was rare to do data delivery by hand but not unheard of. The circumstances were usually very special and Turbine knew it. "That's a good sign though, they trust you with sensitive information."

"Yes, but why an armed escort? What's so sensitive about it that--?"

The duty manager's door banged open again, this time with the duty manager himself waving an authoritative hand. "You have your assignments! Make haste!"

Freewing's flight panels tucked sheepishly and both jets turned in unison toward the docking bays. 

"Things are dicey these days, extra precautions are necessary," Turbine offered quietly, as much for his comfort as her own. "We all got fitted for tase pulse security systems after all."

"And I thought those were gratuitous when they were installed. Why do we even need them, we're just couriers!" Freewing's voice rose, his chassis and limbs feeling tight at the thought of weapons systems. They felt foreign in his body, like a taint almost. "Unnecessary weight. Slows me down." 

Turbine's helm tilted at that last, casting a shadow over the heavy cargo plane's face.

"Sorry, 'Bine. I didn't mean... I'm just not used to all this. I don't..." 

The hard scuff of a heavy footplate grabbed both their attentions, the broad frame of a seeker model glaring expectantly from one docking bay. 

"I better go. Be safe."

" _You_ be safe, 'Wing. I'll see you tonight."

"It'll be fine," he smiled, believing it despite their shared concerns. "The boss has never let us down. I trust him, don't worry. Besides, look who I have to keep me safe?"

Turbine's mouth twitched at the cheekiness, waving goodbye as Freewing turned and approached the docking pad, producing the manifest he was given and his wrist for security verification, doubly checked by both his seeker escort and the dock handler. He folded out into alt when directed, cockpit cover slipping back to reveal his small cargo compartment. 

The larger jet, obviously a fighter model, crossed cyan colored arms over his broad chest. "Your boss says you're the best in your classification. Better hope you can keep up." There wasn't a sneer in his voice, but Freewing could hear the doubt, see the appraising way the other's yellow optics moved over his frame. 

"No doubt I will," he said simply, knowing that the larger jet's mass, armor and multiple combat systems would make him heavier and slower, and no match for Freewing in agility. But then his attention snapped to the sturdy lockbox that had been lowered into his cargo space, magnalocking into place. "That the only payload?" He asked.

"All there is. Heavily shielded, but in the event of emergency there's EMP and erasure protocols if tampered with."

"EMP? Won't that--?"

"That's what I'm here for, little jet. Best to hope it doesn't come to that. We get engaged or separated, you make for the nearest rendezvous point."

Freewing felt his plating tighten down even as his nacelles spun up, warming to the idea of flight and finishing this run as quickly as possible.

 

***

 

_There was a discordant hum in the small space, one with a soft rattle in it and the occasional hitch of air: the sound of a misaligned vent slat ticking against its neighbor. It increased every time he passed long ex-vent, trying to bring his internal temperature down._

_He focused on that, the sounds of his own ventilation system, to try and stay calm, cold fear prickling like ice at the edge of his EM field, a sharp contrast to the warm seep of vital energon pooling beneath him. The static cleared from his HUD finally, mostly, the vid feed of one optic coming online. But the strange cross-cross pattern of the plasticrete in his field of vision made nothing of the puzzle until he saw the slice of yellow, and then another, forming stripes on the floor..._

_The floor of the factory shipping bay._

_It all came back in a rush then: making the delivery, his suspicions, dallying in the shipping bay before heading home... Then everything exploding in chaos, fire and pain. Panic surged through the small jet then, all parts of him trying to move at once, to flee, to escape, and that's when he awakened to the pain, sheer agony lancing through the veil of shock and he screamed, a high keen that pierced the dull smokey night._

 

***

 

This time, as least, he didn't have an armed escort. Just Freewing, as usual, high security payload tucked into his alt-storage as he made his way efficiently towards the factory grounds. It felt good, to be just him, long rays of a setting sun sliding over his plating, gilding his white and blue deco with rose and saffron. It was pleasant enough that he almost forgot about the duty manager's clipped tone, the surly way the dock worker loaded the deliverable for his current assignment and snapped at him for his comments about the poorly detailed manifest.

He tipped a wing and angled in towards the factory at a gentle approach vector, skids touching down on the landing pad of the shipping bay as instructed. He waited, as per protocol, for a dock worker with the proper access code to approach before sliding his cockpit storage open and relinquishing his payload. The crate, shielded for his protection they had said, was carried off towards its destination.

"Got you runnin' all over the place, don't they?" Asked the dock worker, an older manual class model who, despite seeing better days, seemed cheery enough. 

Freewing pushed up out of alt with a soft chuckle, producing the manifest for the dock worker for delivery confirmation. "It's not as cushy as delivering express dining to Translucentica Heights, but it's not so bad really."

"Dare I even ask what posh mech craves that kinda downtown slag?"

Freewing's mouth twitched in a smirk. "I assure you I was tipped quite well to keep the name of that senator in confidence."

The dock worker laughed aloud, Freewing's higher tenor joining his gruff guffaw. "Bet those senators aren't too comfy anymore. You seen the latest? That Megatron's been making a lotta serious noise."

"I noticed. Triaxle can't stop talking about it."

"Well you take care out there, world's gone crazy." The dock worker gave Freewing a pat on the arm, placing his glyph on the manifest and handing it back. "And, tell yer sup ta stop getting sloppy. There's practically nothin' on this manifest."

The jet courier nodded, "It could be more detailed, couldn't it?" Freewing had been curious enough to try scanning the package, but the crate had been shielded as described, the contents listed as some kind of power cell. And he wondered, suddenly, in these dark times, what they manufactured in this factory that required such delicate but powerful parts. Questions he should have asked before accepting the assignment? Perhaps. But it was done and with no harm, so it was time for him to make his way home. Right?

 

***

 

_He couldn't tell anymore if the cries and groans were his own or someone else's, the echo of other sparks guttering in the heavy darkness and rubble that was collapsed around him. His world was only pain, broken open and raw, sensornet filled with the jagged bite of debris and shrapnel, the growing pool of warm vital energon under him and the press of countless kilos of rubble atop him. Agony shot like fire through his wings with each attempted movement, renewing his cries and forcing him still again. The error messages filled his HUD once more, real damage reports this time, diagnostic information he had not the cognitive cycles to sort though._

_It was only the inevitable creep of mortality that demanded his attention, like the steady seep of that vital energon ebbing away, as moments of his life paraded before him, edged with a new clarity._

_Freewing had never asked questions, never doubted his superiors. He'd simply trusted in the way of things, kept his place in them, and dreamed of better things. But now his processor was a jumble of questions, confusion and fear. What had happened? How bad was the damage? How many others were injured or dying? What did this factory make? Was it volatile? How else would an explosion have occurred? Was it negligence? Or sabotage? Who could have, who would have, done something like that? Did his boss know? Was he in on it? Why didn't he asked about the strange manifest? Would he even know a forgery if he saw one? How could all this happen? Or rather, how could he think it wouldn't eventually? How could he have been so foolish? Why didn't he see the warning signs? Would he ever fly again? See the light of day? Did he deserve to....?_

_His fuel gauge dipped low, too low, but lower still sank his spirits, despair creeping over him as time became unhinged, every moment like a single pain-filled forever while still trying to cling to the idea of rescue in the still, unforgiving darkness. Maybe no one would come...  
Maybe this is was the cost of his foolishness..._

_The light of one amber optic guttered, illuminating the shipping bay floor beneath his cheek with dying light. He was tired...so very tired..._

 

***

 

The factory building's corpse, tomb to so many, shuttered and groaned with more complaints. But then a softer rumbling, like the distant murmur of...voices. Talking, coordinating. 

Freewing struggled awake, fighting back oblivion and dragging himself back to consciousness again. The voices filtered down to him, not the floating moans of the dying but true voices, sharp and harried, authoritative and concerned, calling to each other, giving direction. And then the great mass of building shuddered again, falling dust and debris ticking around him, off his plating, and then a tiny slice of light, like a spark, split the darkness.

He called out, free hand reaching, but what would be words emerged instead as hoarse static, vocalizer damaged, underpowered. Yet still it was met with more harried voices, excited now, shouting about survivors, and the slice of light grew like a dawn, creating a shape large enough that it was finally eclipsed by the dark form of a body, finned helm turned his way.

And then a hand, dark gray with a bright red band, touching his wrist. And a voice from the light, the angular deco of a figure with white plating emerging, brilliant against the darkness...

"Don't give up friend, help has arrived. We'll get you out of here. Don't give up."


End file.
